


Turn It Around

by scouringsandstone



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Bisexuality, Burglary, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Past Abuse, Past F/M, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scouringsandstone/pseuds/scouringsandstone
Summary: Larry is a reformed criminal; Freddy is still a cop.





	1. Chapter 1

The thing no one tells you about working a regular white collar job is that everything becomes a routine.

You wake up at the same time every morning, wash, dress, brush your teeth, drink two cups of coffee while you watch the clock above the kitchen sink ticking away, counting down the minutes before you have to leave your apartment, and you grab your jacket.

On Sundays, maybe you can relish sleeping in and the absence of your alarm clock, but the rest of the week, you’re up at six, sneaking out of the door as quietly as you can, because even the key turning in the lock might wake the neighbors.

Nobody tells you that. Nobody told Larry that when they were selling him the dream of a normal life.

They had promised him a better deal. Leave all that behind, start over. He wouldn't regret it. This was an opportunity to become a valuable member of society, to break the cycle. A fresh start, a second chance, a clean slate...

Except it wasn’t. A record like his follows you around the rest of your life. It becomes a consideration whenever you sign the lease on a new apartment, whenever you want to take out a loan or a credit card, whenever you apply for a job. Who wants to employ a man who served six months for assault?

"It might take a while, but we’ll find something for you," his parole officer had assured him. "A couple of misdemeanors shouldn't pose too much of a problem."

But the platitudes had started to wear a little thin after six months of doing some part-time work at a local garage, with very few prospects, and no decent landlord willing to rent to him.

That was when Larry decided to take matters into his own hands.  

He found a piece of real estate he was interested in. A small commercial building that would lend itself well to being a garage or a showroom, with some fixing up.

It wasn't an easy sell, even with his own financing. The only thing that got him through the criminal background check were references from his parole officer and the old guy who'd taken him on at the garage. 

So Larry had put a deposit on the place and bought some stock in cheap with the savings he'd amassed over the years from a few big wins and a few big hauls. The police had never tied him to those. If they had, he sure as hell wouldn't be walking free with a license and his own business.

He's had the dealership for the best part of two decades now though.

It isn't much. A small showroom and lot on the outskirts of town, selling used cars and trucks. Nothing high-end, but there's always a market for cheap and pre-owned, and Larry has always had a natural flair for sales.

The truth is, while the DMV vets ex-cons before issuing them a license, this line of work is practically tailor-made for them. It's all about reading people, bullshitting them, talking them into buying more expensive models that they don't really need. Still, the DMV doesn't see it that way. And if Larry can make a living doing something above board, he can't see much of a downside.

The daily grind is his only real complaint.

He's been at it long enough for this job to lose its luster. Long enough to dread the thought of the place as he cruises through empty the streets at sunrise, watching the buildings of downtown Los Angeles all lit up against the pastel sky.

Larry keeps driving, heads a little further out, finally pulling onto the forecourt of  _AJ’s Auto Sales._

He no longer notices the details of the place in the way that he should. Each day bleeds into the next, uneventful and indistinguishable.

Do the banners out front look a little tired? Larry makes a mental note to order some new ones as he makes his way to the side entrance to open up.

It’s then that he sees it. There is a dull, blinking yellow glow coming from the window of the back office. Larry doesn’t remember leaving the light on. He never leaves the light on.

It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, that creeping realization that there is something wrong. That those details he overlooks every day have suddenly been altered somehow.

When he gets to the side door, he finds it is already hanging open. The lock has been broken.

Adrenaline kicking in, Larry sprints back to his car to take the tire iron out of the trunk, then returns to the side entrance, stepping inside in to take a look around.

In the office, the safe has been tampered with. The cash drawer that is usually stored there overnight is missing. The strip-light is on and the desk has been ransacked for checks. In the back of his mind, it occurs to him that these, at least, might be traceable.

He makes his way into the showroom. At least five of the cars are missing too. The nice ones.

The sliding doors have been opened and then pushed closed again, to give the illusion - from the outside at least - that nothing is amiss.

"Goddamn," Larry says aloud to the empty showroom. The irony of the situation is not lost on him, and despite his anger, he laughs for a moment. It's exactly the kind of place he might have knocked over, once upon at time.

Some people might call that karma. It isn't, not in the original sense, but Larry imagines that if there is some kind of cosmic balance to be restored, this might just be the result.

He has stolen, intimidated, traumatized. He has rendered a few innocent people too afraid to continue going to work and never paid the price. The universe probably owes him a little lousy luck.

The thieves are long gone.

He secures all the doors as best he can, heads back into the office and digs through his filing cabinet, in search of some letters or documentation from his insurance company, with their phone number on the letterhead.

The young woman on the end of the line listens patiently as Larry explains his situation. He can tell from the tone of her voice, as she politely explains that there isn't anything her company can do without a police report, that she is anticipating an angry response.

Larry is frustrated, but not enough to vent those frustrations on some call center worker who isn't paid enough to deal with that.

"Fine. Okay. I guess I’ll have to get one then," he says, and hangs up.

He takes his pack of Marlboro and his Zippo from his shirt pocket and lights one up. Then he picks up the receiver and dials again.

_"Hello, 911, what’s your emergency?"_


	2. Chapter 2

The police haven't arrived.

It has been almost three hours since Larry called them, and what little patience he started out with at six o'clock that morning is beginning to wane.

In Larry's experience, the police have a tendency to show up whenever you don't want them, and never when you do.

Perhaps that's unfair. Perhaps it is less of a hard-and-fast rule, and more Larry's own bad luck, but since when did fair enter into it anyway?

It was the police who had come to take Larry out of class one warm afternoon in June when he was eight. A mountain of a man in a pristine blue uniform had knocked on the door, interrupting their lesson. First he had called Mrs. Anderson - Larry's third grade teacher - out into the hallway, and then in turn, they had both ushered him out too.

His mother had been found dead that morning. Lying on the kitchen floor, with the china hutch pulled down on top of her. She had been drinking heavily and had gone looking for the bottle of gin she kept hidden on top of it, out of Larry's view and out of Larry's reach.

Whether it was the impact that killed her, or whether one of her organs had failed and she just happened to be clinging to the cabinet at the time, Larry didn't know.

Ultimately, the results were the same. She was gone and Larry learned pretty quickly that life was unfair. No matter how good you were, how kind you were, your goodness was met with an insurmountable series of cruelties, injustices, and hardships.

You were on your own in this world, and you might just as well take what you needed, because no one else was going to give it to you.

It was an outlook that had earned Larry plenty of near-misses with the police.

And Larry had come to resent them long before they'd turned up that last time - following an altercation with some guy in a bar, of all things - to throw him in jail.

Larry checks his watch again. A little after nine-forty.

He sits back in his worn leather chair, trying to resist the urge to tidy his desk. He has left everything as it was when he got there, apart from taking a couple of sheets of copy paper to put up a notice on the showroom door and to make a list of the missing items.

No customers today. As well as the notice, he has kept the _closed_ sign turned outwards. If the police decide to gather any evidence, half a dozen fresh sets of shoeprints will only slow things up even further, and Larry can't afford that.

So he waits.  

By the time the knock at the door finally comes, his patience has all but run out.

"It's open!" he calls, as if it could be anything else with the lock broken and the handle hanging off.

A few moments later, his office door opens, and a skinny kid in a blue uniform steps inside.

"Hi," he says.

He's young, that's the first thing Larry notices. Young and apparently alone. The next thing Larry notices is the way the kid carries himself. He has bad posture, a stupid haircut, and he looks like he hasn't been fed for a week.

Cops didn't look like that in Larry's day. Back then all of them seemed to be big, mean bastards, and even if you hated their guts, you felt a healthy amount of fear.

This man doesn't inspire fear. He is chewing gum with his mouth open. His duty belt, with all its attachments, sits awkwardly on his slight waist; too bulky, too heavy.

If anyone deserves to bear the brunt of Larry's anger, it's him.

"Nice of you finally to stop by," says Larry.  

"Yeah, sorry about that, there was a purse snatcher and then I, uh..." he offers, by way of an explanation, waving his hand around like it's supposed to mean something.

"I didn't hear your car," says Larry.

"I parked out front. I didn't realize it was locked, so I parked out on the forecourt, Mr., uh..." he pauses to consult his notebook. "Dimick?"

"That's right."

"Freddy," says the cop, taking a couple of strides forward and offering out his hand for Larry to shake. "Freddy Newandyke."

Larry looks down at his hand for a second, then back up, pointedly ignoring it as he says, "They sending out rookies to deal with burglaries now?"

Newandyke's mouth opens, then closes again. He withdraws his hand. His embarrassment is palpable and Larry can't help the kick he gets out of it.

"I'm not a rookie," Newandyke says, recovering enough of his composure to sound indignant. "I've been with the LAPD for ten years."

"Oh yeah?" says Larry. "Good for you."

Newandyke doesn't look old enough to have been serving for a decade. He barely looks like a cop. There is an air of vulnerability about him, standing there in Larry's office, uniform hanging off him like even the smallest size they carry doesn't quite fit, that bothers Larry.

Do his superiors send him out onto the streets looking like that? How the fuck would this kid ever hold his own in a fight?

Newandyke clears his throat. "You wanna start by telling me what happened, Mr. Dimick?" he says, fidgeting with his pen. He keeps pressing on the top of it over and over, making the nib extend and retract. Click, click, click. The sound sets Larry's teeth on edge.

"What happened?" Larry repeats, frowning.

"Yeah."

"What the fuck do you mean, 'what happened'? What d'you think happened? I got robbed."

"I mean... What happened when you came into work this morning?"

"I _realized_ I got robbed."

Newandyke's jaw twitches. "So the perpetrators were already gone by the time you arrived?"

"I wouldna let them leave if they were still here," says Larry, smiling.

His smile seems to have the desired effect; Newandyke looks uneasy. "Right. And, uh. What was the first thing you noticed?"

"That the door was busted."

Newandyke jots something down in his notebook. "Did you go inside?"

With a look that's half incredulity, half annoyance, Larry says, "Do I look like I'm standing outside right now?"

"Mr. Dimick. Please. Did you go inside right away?"

"What difference does that make? If I stopped to take a piss is that gonna make my stock magically reappear?"

"I'm just trying to establish-"

"Listen," Larry interrupts. "Let me break this down for you because I'm a busy man. Time is money, and I'm losing a morning's trade here. The longer this takes, the more money I lose, do you understand? So, let's just cut through the bullshit."

Newandyke flounders and a sick heat coils in the pit of Larry's stomach.

"I know you people," Larry continues. "You're gonna take down some notes. If it's a slow day, maybe you'll send out a couple of your buddies to take a few pictures, dust the door for prints. The chances of you solving this are slim to none, because burglary isn't a high priority, and because, by and large, you're all so fucking incompetent that you couldn't find your ass with both hands.

"Now, here's where you're in luck: I don't care about that. The only reason I called you out here is because I need to make an insurance claim, and in order to make that insurance claim, I need to file a police report. So, what I want you to do is to make that report. I want you to send me over a copy of that report. And then I want you to get the fuck outta here and go back to doing whatever it is you do. Busting people for smoking pot, or handing out speeding tickets so you can make your arrest quotas."

Newandyke stands there dumbfounded for a few seconds. Finally, he finds his voice again, and asks quietly, "You want me to leave, Mr. Dimick?"

He looks so deflated that Larry almost feels guilty.

"No," Larry tells him. "No, I don't want you to leave. Look, it's been a rough morning, okay? I was just bustin' your balls."

"Mr. Dimick-"

"Larry."

"Huh?"

"Name's Larry. You can stop with that 'Mr. Dimick' shit."

"Okay..."

"Sit down."

Freddy hovers behind one of the customer chairs, watching Larry warily.

 _"Sit,"_ Larry says again, more forcefully, and this time Freddy does.

"They send you here alone?"

Freddy swallows, nods.

"They shouldn't be sending you places alone."

"I'm just here to take a statement," Freddy says, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

"Mm. You smoke?" Larry asks, picking up his pack of Marlboro and taking one between his lips.

Freddy nods again.

"Here." Larry offers the pack out to Freddy. Freddy cautiously leans across Larry's desk so he can take one.

Larry motions for him to lean in closer still, and lights him up with his Zippo. He is so close that Larry can smell him. Laundry detergent, deodorant, and the underlying scent of fresh sweat.

"Thanks," says Freddy.

"No problem. Go ahead," Larry says, nodding towards the notebook.

"Right. So, uh, you went inside..."

"Uh-huh."

"Which room first?"

"This one."

"Was anything missing?"

Larry produces one of the crumpled pieces of copy paper from the top pocket of his shirt, and hands it to Freddy. "I made a list while I was waiting."

"Oh. Okay. Great."

"That's everything that's gone from the whole building," Larry says, as Freddy unfolds it.

"How much would you say? Total?"

"Three grand, at least."

"Damn," says Freddy.

"Yeah," Larry agrees. "They messed with the safe too, but they didn't crack it."

"I'm guessing the door I came in by was the point of entry?" Freddy asks absently, scanning the list.

"Yeah. They opened the sliding doors out onto the forecourt to get the cars out, but I figured that was from the inside."

"Probably. Shit, five cars?"

"Mm. Alarm didn't go off."

"Anybody else know the layout of this place? Employees? Ex-employees? Cleaning staff?" Freddy hollows out his cheeks and exhales, tapping his cigarette over the ashtray on the desk.

"No," says Larry, "Just me."

"One-man operation out here, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You married, Mr. Dimick?"

Larry's head snaps up. "There a reason you need to know?"

"What? Uh, no, it's just-" Freddy gestures vaguely towards Larry's desk. "No pictures. Most guys have pictures of their wife and kids on their desks. You don't. I was just curious."

"Oh," says Larry, relaxing a little. "No, I ain't ever been married." The truth is, there haven't been many people in Larry's life who he has cared about enough to frame their photographs. There are even fewer these days.

Freddy is looking at him, not judgemental, but interested. He won't take his eyes off him. Struck by the sudden need to explain himself further, Larry adds, "I'm not the settling down kinda guy."

"No?"

"No."

"Fair enough," says Freddy, and he doesn't press the matter further.

"You want me to show you around?" asks Larry. It occurs to him after he's said it that it could be taken as an unsubtle attempt to change the subject, but if Freddy notices, he doesn't say.

All he does say is, "Yeah. Just the showroom and the other exits and then I'll be outta your hair."

"All right."

Larry stubs his cigarette out and Freddy follows suit. Larry leads the way on a tour of the building and Freddy tags along behind him, close at his heels, taking notes.

When they get to the empty spaces in the showroom, Freddy stops to scrawl down something else, and asks if Larry has the documentation for the missing vehicles.

"Sure, I'll go get you some copies," Larry says, leaving him there.

When he returns, Freddy is back over by the door, looking it up and down, presumably examining it for prints. Unaware of Larry's presence, he seems more relaxed, more himself somehow. The morning sun from the wall of glass hits him in a way that makes his sharp features contrast with his soft eyes. If Freddy wasn't a cop, Larry thinks he might be good-looking.

"Is that the paperwork?" Freddy asks, making Larry jump.

"Wha- yeah. Yeah."

"Right," says Freddy, approaching him. Larry hands the folder over. "Then I think I have all I need for now. Some of my colleagues'll be over later to process this place. I'll make sure I tell them it's a priority."

"Oh," Larry says stupidly, feeling an odd sense of disappointment. "Yeah. Thanks."

Freddy fishes a card out of his pocket with his name and extension printed on it. "If you think of anything else, call me, okay?"


	3. Chapter 3

It's Freddy who calls him in the end.

A week or so later, when things are finally getting back to normal after the initial flurry of crime scene technicians, locksmiths, and alarm installers, the office phone rings, right as Larry is in the middle of lunch.

It's not that Larry didn't consider calling. He did. But asking for an ETA on the police report didn't seem worth phoning through to the station and potentially dealing with more cops.

Larry puts his sandwich down on the desk and picks up. 

" _AJ's Auto Sales_ ," he manages, around a mouthful of bread and pastrami.

"Hey, Larry?" says the voice on the other end of the line. Larry recognizes it instantly as Freddy's, but Freddy continues: "It's Freddy. Newandyke. Officer Newandyke. I responded to a burglary at your place the other week."

Larry swallows his food, rolls his eyes to the empty room. "Yeah," he says. "I remember."

"Is this a bad time?" 

"It's lunchtime."

A pause, and then, "Should I call back later?" 

"No. I'll be back out on the sales floor later. Why? What do you want?"

"I was calling to ask if you could stop by the station."

"Stop by the station...? What for?"

"We need to take your prints."

Larry's pulse suddenly starts thudding harder in his neck. "What do you need my prints for?"

"Elimination. Uh, victim's prints are always all over the place, so we have to have yours on file to rule 'em out."

It would have been nice if Freddy had opened the conversation with that.

"Couldn't your boys have done this the other day, when they were out covering my showroom in dust?"

"I don't know," says Freddy. "Case has been handed over to the detectives in burglary now. They want your prints, and the technicians didn't take them, so..."

"So they want you to chase it up."

"Yeah. Can you come in?" 

Larry huffs out a sigh. "All right. I could stop by after work, I guess. Around six-thirty okay?"

"Any time you can make it. I'll let the desk sergeant know you're coming, so just check in with him."

"Right," says Larry, and with that, he sets the receiver down a little harder than he needs to.

 

The desk sergeant is a huge guy with a buzz cut, built like a bouncer.

His badge says _Trevino_ on it, and even sitting, he is intimidating. He's hunched over the reception counter, big hand scrawling something on a form when Larry approaches and introduces himself through the small window in the screen.

"I'm here to have my fingerprints taken," he explains. "My place got knocked over the other week, and they want my prints for elimination. Officer Newandyke says you're expecting me."

"Hold on a second," Trevino tells him, picking up the phone and pressing one of the buttons. Larry stands there, unsure of what to do with himself while Trevino talks into the receiver.

"Yeah, a Mr. Dimick. Uh-huh. Says he's here to have his fingerprints taken. One of Newandyke's." Trevino hangs up. "Take a seat," he says to Larry, indicating a row of chairs in the waiting area. "Someone'll be down in a minute."

The whole place smells strongly of disinfectant. It's fresh, and Christ knows what's happened to warrant an impromptu clean-up at this hour, but Larry has seen enough police stations and holding cells to guess that he probably doesn't want to sit down. There is a thin girl moving agitatedly in one of the chairs, eyes and pupils wide, coke sweat on her face.

Larry wanders over to the information board instead, pretends to take an interest in some of the posters they have pinned up there. Anonymous tip lines, helpful suggestions on how not to get your house burglarized or your car stolen, pamphlets supplying details of AA meetings...

He isn't waiting long before he hears the sound of footsteps approaching from down the corridor, and he turns just in time to see the door open. 

It's Freddy. Of course it is. The kid probably works late every evening. He's leaning through into the reception area, propping the door open with what little weight he has. The three top buttons of his shirt are unfastened and he isn't wearing his duty belt, like he's been holed up somewhere doing paperwork all afternoon.

Freddy acknowledges the desk sergeant with a nod before addressing Larry. "Hey," he says. "You wanna come through?"

Larry follows Freddy back down the corridor, past the interview rooms and the offices. Freddy walks a little way ahead, and walking single-file down a hallway behind somebody, there are only so many places you can look. No matter how hard Larry tries to focus on the gray resin floor in front of him, his eyes are somehow drawn to the movement of Freddy's hips.

"So," Larry begins, partly to distract himself, "You making any headway on the case?"

"No leads yet. That's why we need your fingerprints. Any that can't be eliminated are gonna get run through the database. Then maybe we'll get some hits."

"You're taking this seriously." Larry doesn't mean to sound surprised, but if Freddy takes offense then let him.

"There's been a spate of similar cases, here and in North Hollywood. Showrooms and repair shops getting targeted."

"So you're thinking an organized group of guys here?"

"That's what we're trying to find out."

"Hey, kid, I've been meaning to ask," Larry says and Freddy looks back over his shoulder, slowing down a little. "There some kind of hold up with the report? Because I could really use a copy to fax through to my insurance company."

"It's been filed. I should be able to get a copy out to you by the end of the week."

Freddy stops abruptly in front of a door marked  _Men_ and Larry shoots him a questioning look.

"You gotta wash your hands first," Freddy smiles. "Any motor oil or sweat's gonna screw up the prints."

"Shit. Yeah. All right."

Larry heads inside, leaving Freddy waiting in the corridor.

As he scrubs at his hands with the cheap soap, he tries not to think about the way he couldn't take his eyes off of Freddy. It's just an involuntary reaction to a good-looking man. It doesn't mean anything.

Freddy is attractive. Not in the classic sense, not like a film star or a fashion model, but there's something about him. The fact that he's a cop doesn't change that. Larry's body doesn't understand the difference. Those base urges, they don't distinguish between what's acceptable and what isn't.

Larry splashes some cold water over his face, dries his hands on a paper towel, then steps out into the corridor again.

"All good?" Freddy asks.

"Mm-hm."

And with that, they move off together, Larry quickly falling into step behind Freddy again.

The corridor bends around in an L-shape, and after they turn the corner, Freddy shows Larry into one of the first rooms they come to: a small office with a name on the door that Larry doesn't get the chance to read. It's cramped, cluttered. Across one wall, there are shelves lined with old box files and books. The rest of the space is occupied by a desk, a swivel chair, and a filing cabinet.

"This your office?"

"I don't have an office," says Freddy. "I work outta the squad room when I'm not on patrol. But the afternoon shift are in there right now and Burchett is one of the guys on your case, so..."

"It's Burchett's office?"

"Mm. You can sit down if you want."

"No. That's all right."

Larry stands in front of the desk, takes the opportunity to look around while Freddy rummages in one of the drawers. Two photographs hang on the wall: one of a dark-haired man, presumably Burchett, with a toddler. And the other of pretty brunette in maybe her mid-thirties, smiling for the camera. Larry had never noticed the absence of pictures and personal effects from his own office until Freddy had pointed it out, but over the course of the last week, he has become acutely aware of it.

He wonders whether his customers have noticed too. First impressions are important. He doesn't want them to think of him as a womanizer - that comes with a lot of negative connotations - and that's bad for business. It would make him seem untrustworthy. Equally, he doesn't want them to think too hard about any of the other reasons a man might remain a bachelor into his forties.

Larry could have married, if he'd wanted to. He could have had his pick. Women seem to like him, and he likes women just fine, but he's seen what happens when a marriage unravels. It gets messy. Ugly.

Besides, Larry realized at a pretty early age that he liked men the same way, so somehow all that one man, one woman, holy matrimony bullshit never quite worked for him.

"Gonna need you to sign this and fill in your date of birth before we get started."

Larry looks up. Freddy has already laid out an inkpad and a print card on the desktop, and is completing some of Larry's details.

Freddy passes Larry the pen and points to the appropriate sections.

"This is a lot of hassle, just for a few prints," says Larry.

"Tell me about it."

"You keep these on file after?"

"After what?"

"After the case is over." Larry tries to keep his tone casual, setting the pen down and folding back the cuffs of his shirt.

"No," says Freddy. "They'll do a comparison and only run the prints that don't match yours. Card'll be destroyed once forensics are done. Why?"

"I was just wondering."

And maybe Larry underestimated Freddy that first day, because Freddy frowns slightly and says, "Larry... Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Have you ever had your fingerprints taken before?"

It seems senseless to deny it, when Freddy could access anyone's records within a matter of minutes using only their name.

"Yeah," Larry admits. "I was arrested for a couple of misdemeanors, years ago."

"What for?"

"Drinking in public and assault."

"You serve any time?"

"Six months."

Freddy drops his gaze and nods.

It's not the reaction Larry was expecting. It's sure as hell not the reaction he'd get from most cops. Most cops would give you attitude, after finding out you had a rap sheet, but Freddy's manner doesn't change at all. He's still polite and respectful as he says, "Here, start with your right hand."

Freddy moves closer, takes Larry's hand in both of his and examines it. Seemingly satisfied that it's clean enough, he dips Larry's thumb into the ink and rolls it across the designated box on the card. He repeats the process for Larry's index and middle fingers, gripping Larry's hand, exerting a gentle pressure. ****~~~~

"How long ago was it?" Freddy asks.

"Huh?"

"How long ago did you do your time?"

Larry tries to do the math in his head. "Must've been... eighteen years now. Back in seventy-four." **** ~~~~

"That's a while."

"Yeah."

When Freddy comes to do Larry's little finger, his touch lingers on the gold signet ring there, and Larry wonders whether he understands its significance. Meanings change over the years, perhaps it was before Freddy's time...

"You been doing okay since?" Freddy asks. He releases Larry's right hand and makes a start on the left. In order to reach across that little bit further, Freddy is standing even closer. Larry can feel the heat from Freddy's body where he is leaning into him.

"I haven't been in any trouble with the law since, if that's what you mean."

"That's good."

Larry wants to say something, make some smart-ass remark to shut Freddy up if he's going to be patronizing, but he finds his mouth has gone dry. There doesn't seem to be much air in the room, and what little air there is feels hot and oppressive.

Freddy's breath is on his neck. His hand is gripping Larry's too tightly.

"I mean it," says Freddy. "I think it's really great."

Maybe Freddy isn't being patronizing. Maybe he's genuinely impressed that Larry has done the bare minimum to behave like a civilized human being for the last eighteen years.

It's almost laughable. That kind of naivety, coming from a man who has served a decade as a beat cop. Almost repulsive. A part of Larry wants to tear this kid down, shatter his world view, give him a dose of reality, but perhaps for the first time in his life, Larry hates himself for it, just a little.

"Last one."

Larry can smell the spearmint of Freddy's gum each time he talks. Freddy's skin is so soft compared to his; it might be the contrast that does it. For a split-second, Larry imagines those soft hands running down across his body, and his dick twitches, even as his stomach turns.

He lets Freddy finish up before taking a couple of steps back to put as much distance between the two of them as the small room will allow.

"You okay?" Freddy asks.

"Mm. Too hot, that's all."

"Yeah, it is hot in here." Freddy looks up at him briefly as he gets a box of Kleenex off the desk, holds it out so Larry can take a couple to clean up with. "You wanna go wash your hands again before you leave?"

"No."

What Larry wants is to get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

Maybe Freddy picks up on that, because he puts the print card into a file, and says, "C'mon, I'll walk you back to the front desk."

 

Even as Freddy escorts him back towards reception, the unsettled feeling in the pit of Larry's stomach doesn't completely subside.

He makes sure he stays out in front this time, keeps his eyes fixed dead ahead. Somehow he can't think of a single thing to say to break the uncomfortable silence.

As they are approaching the end of the corridor Freddy breaks it instead.

"I didn't mean to upset you back there," he says.

"Upset me?"

"Yeah. Bringing up all that stuff about your past..."

"That didn't upset me."

"It's just- you seem quiet."

"I told you, I'm hot. Tired. It's been a long day."

"Okay. Good. If that's all it is, that's good, 'cause I wasn't trying to be an asshole, I just wanted to know."

"Yeah," says Larry. "I know."

Freddy temporarily overtakes him to hit the release button at the side of the security door. Larry opens it and the cool evening breeze blowing in from the main entrance provides an intense rush of relief.

"Hey," Freddy says, catching Larry's arm, just as Larry goes to step through. "Thanks for coming in."

Subconsciously, Larry tenses up his bicep before shrugging Freddy off.

"No problem. Don't forget that report."


	4. Chapter 4

It isn't a big deal, Larry reasons, when he has time to reflect on what happened at the station during his drive home.

It happens. People have passing thoughts about what it would be like to fuck the guy serving their drinks or what their buddy's girlfriend would look like naked all the time. It doesn't mean they plan on doing anything about them.

The street lights have come on above him, lining the stretch along West 2nd, and he makes his way down past the apartment buildings and the offices in the dusk.

So in that moment, in that office, with Freddy's breath on his neck, and Freddy's warm body pressed to his, he had pictured it. It wasn't a fantasy. Larry didn't go out of his way to imagine what it would feel like to have Freddy touching him. He's not one of those sick fucks with a thing for the uniform. It was one stray thought about a good-looking young man who happens to be a cop. So what if his body responded? You can't convict a guy for that.

The traffic signals turn to red, and he stops, reaches into his top pocket to retrieve his pack of Marlboro, lighting up for the second time since he left the station. He needs something to steady his nerves and the nicotine helps, even if it doesn't completely solve the problem.

Not that there is a problem, not exactly. It's just that when other people are having illicit thoughts about their bartender or their best friend's girl, they don't generally hate everything the object of their desire stands for.

As soon as the lights shift back to green, Larry steps on the gas, keeps going until he reaches the intersection, where he turns off. He makes another turn, hangs left to get back onto his usual route, when he sees a mini market advertising _wine_ and _beer_ and _groceries_ on its storefront, and decides to pull in.

There are a couple of spaces on the street outside, rush hour having passed. That extra half hour at the station has put him behind.

Still, it should be worth it. In a couple of days Freddy will mail out a copy of the report, the case will likely go cold, and Larry will get his money back without having to deal with him again. That would be for the best, he thinks. Whatever this is, it will fizzle out once Freddy is off of the scene.

The convenience store is overstocked and badly lit, but it has everything Larry needs.

He picks up some milk and a frozen TV dinner. He doesn't want to have to cook tonight. He just wants to get home, take a shower, fall asleep, and forget this day ever happened.

His initial disgust has morphed into a creeping sense of shame at the idea of getting aroused by a cop. What would his old friends think if they could see him now? What would _Freddy_ think?

The nineties are a brave new world, but Larry is old enough to remember the raids. It makes for a pretty formative experience, seeing men like you getting arrested, police reports being falsified, just for hanging out in a certain kind of bar. The boys in blue don't do things like that these days, not officially. Unofficially, if you still happen to frequent those kinds of bars and you get talking to people, there are plenty of more recent stories.

For all Larry knows, Freddy could be one of those guys.

He doesn't seem like the type, but that doesn't mean much. Maybe he isn't an instigator. Not all cops can be corrupt, morally bankrupt assholes, abusing their power, but an environment like that breeds corruption. The good ones either get driven out or fall in line eventually. Freddy's no different.

Larry stops at the coolers, checks out the beer selection. 

As a rule, he doesn't drink at home. Ordering up a scotch on the rocks or two when you're out at a bar is one thing. That's social. Drinking alone is a different thing altogether; it feels dangerous somehow, closer to dependency than fun. All the same, after the day he's had, he figures it won't hurt this one time. He picks up a six pack of Budweiser and heads over to the register. A few beers and a good night's sleep and he can put all this to rest, start over tomorrow.

The woman behind the counter is busy unpacking bottles of orange soda. She's maybe a little older than Larry, thick graying hair swept up into a bun. There are dark circles under her eyes.

"Good evening, sir," she says, offering him a tired smile. Her voice has a hint of a Spanish accent that Larry can't pin down.

He returns her smile. "'Evening."

She doesn't make any further attempt at small talk, which Larry appreciates and he absently watches her ring up and bag his groceries.

Maybe he's having a midlife crisis. It's a distinct possibility. Other guys go out and buy expensive cars and date younger women when they hit forty. Larry is already an old hand at that stuff, so maybe his midlife crisis has to manifest as something a little more extreme.

The cashier says something, but he's only half listening. He doesn't register her words until after he's already said, "What?"

"Five eighty-four please."

Larry hands over a ten dollar bill, thanks her, and picks up the bag.

"Your change, sir," she calls after him as he starts to walk away.

"Huh?"

"You forgot your change."

"Oh. Yeah. Thank you."

 

By the time he gets home it's dark, and even with the lights posted along the parking area outside the front of the complex, he has a hard time manoeuvring into his allocated space. If he parks too close to his neighbors either side, they might bump his car with their doors in the morning, and he can't have that. His Corvette is in mint condition, recently detailed, and he wants to keep it that way. It's all part of the image he likes to project; you can't convince people to buy cars from you if you don't drive something nice yourself, regardless of the quality of your stock. You've got to sell the whole lifestyle. Besides, midlife crisis or not, he likes to impress.

Inside, he takes the elevator, groceries balanced in one arm.

He wonders whether Freddy saw him out in the police department's parking lot, whether he noticed his car. It isn't the kind of car you could afford on a beat cop's salary. Freddy would notice it, wouldn't he?

The elevator stops at the third floor and Larry gets out.

He decides he has to switch off, to think about something else. If he keeps overanalysing this, he's going to make it into a bigger deal than it is, so once he gets into his apartment, he makes a point of not thinking about Freddy. Not during his meal, not while he sinks one beer after the next as he watches a film on TV, and definitely not when he strips out of his work clothes, throws them into the laundry hamper and sets about getting ready for bed.

He turns on the shower and tests the temperature of the water before he climbs in, lightheaded with the whole six pack inside of him, channelling all his remaining energy into trying not to slip.

His own hands running across his skin as he lathers himself up bring back the visceral memory of the way he'd imagined Freddy's hands would feel. He stops that train of thought dead in its tracks, braces himself against the tiles, and lets the water wash over him until it runs cold.

Definitely a midlife crisis. 

When he stumbles into bed, naked against the fresh, cool sheets, he falls asleep within minutes.

 

He wakes some indeterminable time later to find the room is too hot and his head is swimming. There is a dull ache behind his eyes - the beginning of a hangover, maybe - and a throbbing between his legs.

He throws back the covers.

The room is pitch black and Larry thinks it must still be the early hours of the morning, but the red digits of his alarm clock won't quite come into focus.

He closes his eyes again, rolls over onto his back, and lets his hand slide down to where his cock rests full and heavy against the crease of his hip.

He's floating somewhere in that state between consciousness and sleep, hand stroking. There is no urgency. No rush to finish. Most of the time when he wakes up hard, he doesn't bother to relieve it at all, just lets his arousal abate as he goes back to sleep, but tonight he has to do something to ease the tension.

This is probably what he needs, what he has needed all along. It's obvious to him now that he has been frustrated. It has been too long since he had a night out, since he brought someone home or else woke up in a stranger's bed.

He works his hand up and down, still drifting, trying to focus on the heat spreading in his lower belly, the weight of his cock in his palm.

When his mind finally searches for inspiration - something to visualize - he settles on the mental picture of the last woman he slept with. The sweet, curvy young blonde, who had kissed him against the wall of the sports bar over by the pool tables. Terri. He tries to remember the fullness of her lips, the way she had kissed a trail down his body later before taking him into her mouth.

He can feel himself getting closer, feel his hand moving faster as he chases the rush of endorphins.

She had looked up at him, kept her eyes fixed on his as she took him. He can still picture it: her soft expression from further down the bed.

Only suddenly it isn't her. It's Freddy. Jesus Christ, it's skinny, pale little Freddy staring up at him, cheeks hollowed out, eyes dark behind his hair where it has fallen down across his face. It's Freddy pulling back and licking his lips obscenely, before sinking down again, and Larry comes instantly, crying out into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

The tinny beeping of the alarm clock seems too loud.

Larry jerks awake, instinctively rolls over and fumbles for the _off_  button, silencing it before it wakes half of the complex. 

He lies back. His head hurts and his throat feels dry. His usual glass of water is missing from the nightstand and he remembers the reason why he went to bed too drunk and too exhausted to bother with his nightly routines. 

If someone had told him twenty years ago that at some point in the future he would get himself off to the thought of getting blown by a cop, Larry never would have believed them. Hell, he would have probably hospitalized them as a matter of principle, truth be told. And back then he would have been confident in the knowledge that they deserved it. Now though... things aren't so clear-cut.

For a while Larry doesn't move. The bed is warm and the room is still dark save for a beam of artificial light sneaking in through a gap in the curtains. He could go back to sleep, keep reality at bay for a little while longer. No need to think about the implications of what happened last night just yet...

After a few minutes of watching the numbers on the clock change, the fullness of his bladder coupled with the unsettled feeling in his stomach has Larry too uncomfortable to fall asleep again. Besides, it's Thursday; he has to go to work. He groans, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

The weekend isn't far away. Maybe Saturday night after work he can go out, have a good time, and forget about Freddy altogether.

Larry gets up and makes for the bathroom. He relieves himself, brushes his teeth to rid his mouth of the acrid taste of stale beer and tobacco. His lower belly still feels tacky from where he gave himself a perfunctory clean-up with tissues last night, so he takes another shower. By the time he finishes up in the bathroom and gets dressed, he's running late. Coffee will only make his stomach feel worse and put him further behind, he decides, and settles for half a glass of tap water before he heads off to work.

 

If there's anything that makes a slow morning drag, it's feeling like shit. 

Larry periodically refills his cup at the cooler and chews a breath mint every time he has to speak to anyone, trying to disguise the lingering smell of beer on him. The customers ask the same irritating questions they always do, but, in this state, he has a lower tolerance for them than usual.

_What year is this model? Is this a stick shift or an automatic? Is Toyota an American company?_

He listens to one old man telling him in great detail about his grandson's plans to go to college and how he'll be needing a car to get around. Apparently the grandson is going to study law. The old man talks with the kind of pride that suggests Larry is supposed to be as impressed as the rest of the family are, and doesn't stop talking until Larry manages to get him out of the door, having sold him a Comet with too many miles on the clock. 

By the time midday rolls around, Larry thinks he's about ready to sock the next person who talks to him in the face.

He closes up an hour for lunch just to get a break from people. Still unwilling to risk eating anything substantial, he opts to stay in his office and drink a couple more cups of water, between resting his head in his arms on the desk.

Going over the Freddy situation is making the pain in his temples worse. Realistically, nothing has changed. Whatever it was, a fantasy or a dream, nobody else has to know about it. This is his problem, and all he has to do to resolve it is avoid interacting with this kid and allow a little time for the whole thing to blow over.

He is just about to search his desk for some aspirin, when he hears thumping on the side door.

Customers don't use that entrance. There have been a few exceptions, where some of the more determined assholes have found their way around to the side of the building and hammered on it while the showroom was closed, but it's rare. Larry gets to his feet, instantly alert.

It's locked. He knows it's locked, he always locks it, but now he's second-guessing himself. What if it's open? What if the guys who robbed him have come back for another go? It's ridiculous, the idea that the burglars would return in broad daylight and knock first. Nonetheless, he tenses up as he walks out into the short corridor.

"Staff entrance. We're closed for lunch," he calls through the door. "Open again at one."

The response is immediate. "Yeah, I know. I didn't wanna interrupt you while you were on the sales floor."

Freddy. 

This has got to be some kind of cosmic joke. The whole universe has _got_ to be conspiring against him. All Larry wants to do is avoid this man, and yet here he is again, less than twenty-four hours later, showing up unannounced while Larry is trying to take a break. Why is he here? What the hell could he possibly want this time?

It isn't just that Larry doesn't trust himself around Freddy. He feels like shit, probably looks like shit too, and the idea of Freddy seeing him, tired and hungover, bothers him in a way he can't explain. Christ, Larry thinks bitterly, he'd even take on the thieves over dealing with Freddy right now. All the same, he can't exactly pretend he's gone out for lunch, not when Freddy has already heard his voice. He smooths back his hair where it has come out of place and slips another breath mint into his mouth, then he unlocks the door.

As he opens it, he takes in the sight of the kid standing there, smiling, with what looks like a manila folder tucked under his arm. Freddy doesn't look like shit. Jesus. Freddy looks good. The top buttons of his shirt are undone again, and he's wearing a pair of round sunglasses, which he quickly removes and folds away in his top pocket. His skin has a healthier glow in the sunlight.

"You again," Larry says, feeling irrationally angry with him.

"Me again."

"What d'you want this time?"

"Your copy of the report," says Freddy, presenting the folder to Larry and looking for all the world like Larry should be pleased to see him. Larry isn't.

"You didn't have to come all the way out here, you know. You coulda just mailed it to me."

Freddy dips his head, but doesn't break eye contact. "I was in the neighborhood. Figured it'd be faster. You said you wanted it before the weekend, right?"

"Fax," Larry says curtly. "Doesn't your department have a fax machine?"

"Like I said, I was already out here on a call..."

Larry doesn't have a response to that and Freddy doesn't make to leave, so the two of them just stand there for a few seconds. Maybe it's the alcohol in his system making his brain lag, maybe it's being forced to face Freddy with the mental picture of the guy's lips stretched around his cock still burned fresh into his mind, but for once conversation isn't coming easily to Larry.  

After an awkward silence, he says, "How'd you know I'd be at lunch, anyway?"

"You were at lunch the same time yesterday."

"You remembered what time I ate lunch yesterday?"

"I called you after twelve and you said you were at lunch, so I figured-"

"Jesus Christ, you always remember details like that?"

Freddy kicks at the gravel, hands shoved into his pockets. "Comes with the job, I guess."

Larry snorts derisively. "Get the fuck outta here. Most of you couldn't remember how to spell your own names."

There is a brief flash of hurt in Freddy's eyes and this time Larry doesn't take any satisfaction in it at all.

None of this is Freddy's fault. The logical part of Larry knows that. Freddy has done nothing to invite or encourage this unhealthy interest Larry seems to have in him, and resenting him for it is a lousy thing to do. Larry has known guys like that. Guys who blame women for their own lack of self-control. The fact that Freddy is a man doesn't make it any less lousy. And the fact that Freddy is a cop... well, Larry isn't sure what that makes it.

"Look, I'm sorry," Larry tells him. "I was trying to be funny." Except he wasn't. He was trying to hurt Freddy's feelings and it worked, and now he's lying because he took a step back, looked at himself, and didn't like what he saw.

"Yeah, no, I know. It's cool," Freddy mutters, shrugging, giving Larry a free pass that he knows he doesn't deserve. He can tell that his words stung, even if Freddy's trying not to show it.

"No, it was rude and I apologize, all right?"

Freddy doesn't look like he knows what to say, so he settles for an uncertain, "All right."

"Thank you. For bringing this over, I mean." Larry waves the folder at him.

"No problem," Freddy says, before pointing to the alarm panel on the wall behind Larry and adding, "You got a new system."

"Mm-hm."

"That's a good model. High-end."

"So the security company told me."

"New lock, too."

"Mm, pain in the ass to replace with these doors. They use those goddamn multipoint locks."

Freddy pulls a face, glances back along the walkway between the building and the neighboring fence, says, "Well, you could use everything you can get out here... You ever think about hiring some other staff?"

"I thought about it. Decided I didn't need nobody else."

"Just you on your own... that leaves you open to all kinds of attacks. Opportunists, anybody who knows your set-up."

"The LAPD making house calls to offer security advice now?" Larry asks, but this time it's gentle teasing, no anger or hostility.

Freddy holds up his hands. "Just a suggestion."

"I appreciate the concern, kid, but I can take care of myself."

Freddy looks Larry up and down, like he's assessing him. "Yeah," he says. "I can believe that."

Larry feels his heart rate speed up. He waits for Freddy to look away, only Freddy doesn't, Freddy just keeps staring with an uncomfortable intensity that makes Larry's palms prick with sweat. Of course the kid is just sizing him up, calculating his odds in a fight, but it's unnerving. Under Freddy's scrutiny, Larry catches himself shifting slightly, standing taller, redistributing his weight, sucking in his stomach, and squaring his shoulders.

He wants Freddy to know that he can take care of himself. He could to write it off as wanting to intimidate Freddy a little, except he already knows that isn't it. Maybe at the beginning he wanted to make Freddy feel uneasy, but not any more. This is something else, something Larry has been afraid to acknowledge, let alone put a name to. He's trying to _impress_ this kid.

Panic setting in, Larry swallows hard, manages to say, "Anyway, I should go. Gotta open back up in ten minutes," in a carefully measured voice.

"Shit. Yeah, sorry. I'll, uh..." Freddy gestures back down the path. "I should get back to work too. I'll keep you posted on the case, okay?"

"Okay."

Freddy turns and walks away, rounds the corner back onto the lot and disappears from view.

 

It doesn't occur to Larry until later that afternoon, as he's dialling up the insurance company's fax line and feeding the pages of the report into the machine, that Freddy was lying.


End file.
